Jack grabs Evan, yanks him behind a pillar. Evan rolls across the back of the rounded concrete, the cool surface kissing the blades of his shoulders, and pops out the other side already shooting. He Swiss-cheeses the front seats and whoever occupies them. The SUV slows to a crawl, rolls forward to brush Evan’s thighs. The would-be assassins, tilted over the dashboard, have been made unrecognizable by his well-placed hollow points.

He braces himself for the noise he knows will come next.

The inevitable gurgle from behind him.

Bright arterial blood soaks the shoulder of the blue flannel. Jack’s hand, already wearing a glove of crimson, clamps the wound.

Evan rips the flannel off to get a clean look. Needles of blood spray from between Jack’s fingers. Lingering beneath the familiar tang of iron, the sickly sweet trace of cherry blossom churns Evan’s gut.

Years of training have stripped the panic reaction out of him, have crushed it from his cells.

And yet.

His face hot.

Time moving differently.

Grief clawing free of the lockbox in his chest, crowding his throat.

Jack is saying things he never said, things he would never say. He is speaking not from the memory but from Evan’s heart of hearts.

I took you in.

Raised you as my own.

And you killed me.

Why?

He raises an arm cloaked in blood, pointing out, away.

Banishing Evan from the intimate sight of his last ragged breaths.

Banishing Evan to a lifetime of atonement.

Banishing Evan from himself.

With the bloody flannel mopped around his fist, Evan runs. He runs for the darkness, because only darkness can cover the nakedness of his shame.

Only in darkness can he be alone.

*   *   *

He came to in silk.

Liquid sheets caressing his skin, a sea of rumpled purple darker than eggplant, a bed fit for a maharaja.

At first he thought he was still in the dream.

And then the pain hit.

8. His Own Dollhouse

8

His Own Dollhouse

When Evan lifted his head from the pillow, his ribs gave a complaint that set his teeth on edge. He took a moment to remember how to breathe. Then he threw back the silk-soft sheets and sat up with a groan. Facts pinged in at him like june bugs hitting a windshield.

He was naked.

Wine-red bruises splotched his right side—thigh, stomach, chest.

His room was as spacious and luxurious as the sleigh bed unfurled beneath him.

Through a groggy haze, he assembled his surroundings in pieces. Vaulted ceiling, exposed beams. Insulated curtains on a wrought-iron rod. Distressed-leather chair and ottoman with whipstitched edges and hammered nailheads. Mahogany counter and built-in desk without a chair. Crackling logs in a travertine-faced fireplace. The design seemed as un–Los Angeles as one could get, Ralph Lauren sprucing up the von Trapp family lodge.

Evan allowed himself one great big moment of What The Fuck.